Sweet Trip
by PurpleCarpetsAgainstViolence
Summary: It's Halloween and Dean's stomach is about to kill him. John thinks it's a regular candy overdose. Well, John is wrong.


Written for the h/c meme on hoodie time (did I mention that hoodie time is awesome? Like...seriously awesome?). Figured since Roaming the Land While You Sleep is all nice and full with teenagemoody!Sammy, I'd do the same for Dean. Just with some thrown in Dean whump, 'cause it makes me happy =)  
There is that guy on my train every morning who kinda looks like Crowley...maybe I can sell my soul to him in exchange for the boys...but intill then I'm afraid I still don't own Supernatural.

00000

Halloween sucks.

Dean hates Halloween.

Halloween is creepy dudes hiding razor blades in candy and idiot kids thinking a white sheet makes them look like a ghost and assholes shaking their heads all sad at little Sammy because Dad couldn't (wouldn't) get him a decent costume.

Dean remembers real costumes. Tiny and yellow and made of awesome with a real helmet, like the real firefighters'. Stupid thing burned to a little yellow rubber ball two nights later…Oh, and Halloween is Hilary Dalton from Dean's physics class, pointing one oragne, manicured finger at him, laughing with her group of friends, because she is going to Brian Jaeger's older brother's party and Dean is walking around, trick or treating with his kid brother.

Well, _fine_, Hilary. See who helps you out when you fail your next electronics exam. 'cause Dean sure as hell isn't gonna switch tests with you again.

So yeah, Halloween sucks balls and if Sammy doesn't get tired of this pointless begging trip around the neighborhood soon, then Dean will be forced to shoplift a giant bag of marshmallows and stuff his brother's face with them.

Thankfully, their backpack is filled nearly to the brim and they call it quits ten minutes later.

Doesn't really improve Dean's mood though.

"How'd the raid go?" Dad asks when they get back to their motel room, running an amused glance over Sammy's 'costume' of black shirt, black jeans, black shawl around his face.

"Great." Sammy announces around a mouthful of giant lollipop. He turns his backpack upside down and a plethora of candy spills out over their bed. "See?"

"You have fun, too?" John looks up from his papers just in time to catch his eldest's exaggerated eye roll.

"Yeah. Loads of fun. Don't know what all the other kids are thinking, getting laid tonight. They could be having such a blast, begging strangers for their leftover crap."

John thinks about getting in the kid's face about him not being too big for a good ass-kicking and thinking about who he's talking to, but decides it's not worth the effort. Other parents would give their right arm for a fourteen-year old whose only reaction to having to watch his little brother on Halloween is an eye roll and a smart ass comment. John figures he's probably got it easy, so he settles on a warning glare and returns to his research.

"Hey, I called dibs on the Punch Twists, ass face!"

"Yeah, they landed on my side of the bed, jerk!"

"Gimme my Punch Twists or I'm gonna lick your Hershey bar."

"Daaad!"

Or maybe not so easy.

"Nobody's gonna lick anything."

Sammy shoots a smug "ha!" in Dean's direction.

"Sammy, do you even like Punch Twists?"

"No, but-"

"Give them back to your brother."

"But-"

"If you can't share, I can put that stuff right back into your bag and give it to a homeless shelter."

Jesus…you'd think that they'd be past the 'if you can't play nice, don't play at all' phase by now.

By the time it's dark and John is getting ready to head out to the graveyard, Sammy is watching The Simpsons, absentmindedly playing with a couple of wrappers in his lap. Dean is glancing at the TV with mild interest, munching his way through what has to be at least his fifth chocolate bar. Dozens of wrappers from all other kinds of sugary crap are strewn all across the bed.

"You keep eating like that, you're gonna give yourself a stomach ache." He advises, trying to keep the censure out of his voice.

Dean waves him off, drawling "I'ma shtob eadin' when I'm nod hun'ry 'nymore." He takes another giant bite before he's quite done swallowing the last one.

"Well, don't come cryin' to me when it turns out I was right." John rolls his eyes and heads out.

It's a simple enough salt'n'burn and John's in a surprisingly good mood when he comes back a couple of hours later. He opens the door and takes in the room. Sammy is fast asleep, sprawled in an impossible position in the armchair in front of the television. Dean is sitting upright in the boys' bed, one hand clutching his stomach.

"Told ya." John comments and tells Dean to go to sleep, shaking his head with a small smile and heads for the bathroom to wash off the excess graveyard dirt.

Dean tries to lie down flat again, but fuck, his stomach hurts so much, he's gonna puke if he doesn't physically hold it together. Stupid candy.

Dad comes back from the bathroom and looks down at Dean, all amused and smug and _not _compassionate.

"You doin' okay?" he asks, still with that stupid all knowing smile on his face.

"'m doing awesome." Dean mumbles, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible while curled into a tiny ball with both hands clutching his cramping guts.

"Should'a listened to me."

Well, yeah, no kidding?

Dean rolls himself into a small ball of misery and Dad picks Sammy up from his armchair and deposits him on the other side of Dean's bed.

The lights get turned out and Dad falls into his own bed and shortly after, Dean is left listening to his father's snores and his brother mumbling in his sleep and he tries to tighten his hold around his mid section.

Just try and sleep, he tells himself. It'll all be gone by morning.

Only, he can't fall asleep, because somebody fucking poured acid bleach down his throat and it's slowly eating its way out. He tries to remember if anybody ever wrote a song about the torturous ordeal of candy poisoning…probably not. Pity. Would have been a great addition to the soundtrack of his life.

Suddenly Sammy is making little noises in the back of his throat that mean he's awake.

"Hey, Sammy, why're you up?"

Dean forces himself to turn around without really uncurling. Uncurling might just kill him at this point. Sammy scrunches up his face, then shrugs.

"You have a nightmare?"

Again, he looks like he's thinking the question over, then shakes his head.

"I think it's you." He finally announces after some more thinking. Kid thinks to damn much. "I can't sleep next to you. You're moving around all the time and you're real hot 'n sweaty. Are you sick or something?"

Dean shakes his head. He's not _sick_ sick. Nothing to worry Sammy with. He tells him to go back to sleep.

Dean tries to do the same, but as the morning draws closer, the pain becomes worse, not better. His shirt and boxers are clinging to him with cold sweat. So is his half of the bed sheet and breathing is getting more and more uncomfortable. Something is definitely off. Something more than having too much chocolate in his system. Not like Dean has never overeaten before and this? Definitely worse than the pizza binge they had at Caleb's when he was ten.

Dean gets up to rummage through their first aid kit and promptly folds in on himself again. He makes it into the bathroom in his half crouched position and starts rooting around for some pain meds.

Then the light gets turned on and Dad is in the doorway, looking all disheveled and tired, shaking his head at Dean.

"What do you think you're doing, son?"

Dean figures he makes for a pretty pitiable picture, curled against the bathtub, clutching the first aid kit in his lap.

"Looking for some Tylenol." He informs him, trying to keep as much of the pain out of his voice as possible. Dad probably thinks he's a little sissy, putting up a huge fuss over a little tummy-ache, anyway.

"Tylenol?" Yup, that's exactly what Dad is thinking. "Stealing medical supplies isn't easy, Dean. We can't waste them on a bad stomach."

Dean nods. He should have thought of that. But fuck, it hurts. So. Bad.

"I don't think this is from the extra chocolate, Dad." He whispers. Sweat is running into his eyes. His throat is dry all of a sudden.

Dad rolls his eyes again, like he's saying 'yeah, what else would it be?' and Dean thinks about the public service announcement he saw the other day about these pervs that poison candy on Halloween.

Dean tries to push himself to his feet because Dad said he couldn't have any pain meds so he might as well be miserable in his bed instead of the hard bathroom floor. Then the floor is gone and his head is swimming and his heart is lurching for his throat and his guts are trying for the opposite direction and crap, Dean wasn't gonna puke.

Somehow Dad manages to maneuver him over to the toilet before he spews sticky, sweet goo all over himself. The cramps feel like they are never going to stop and Dean continues with his dry heaving for some time after the last remnants of his earlier candy fest are out of his system. Dad is saying something and rubbing a wet cloth over Dean's neck, but Dean's too focused on trying not to cry with the stupid cramps cutting through his stomach to pay any attention to that. Dad's voice still holds that mocking I-told-you-so tone, though.

At some point the dry heaving stops and a cup of water appears in front of Dean's face.

"There you go." Dad says once Dean is done rinsing and slumped back against the wall. "All out of your system. Think you can go to sleep now?"

No. Not in a million years. Fuck, it's _worse_ than before.

"Yes, sir."

Because there's no use complaining one way or another.

Thankfully Dad helps him get back to bed, because the whole walking upright thing isn't really working out for Dean right now. He lies back down and thinks that he's being a wimp because Dad would have given him some meds if there was anything seriously wrong with him. He still feels really cold (or is it hot?) though and somebody's still stabbing his abdomen (again…and again…and again…) and he feels like he might throw up again if he moves ever so slightly and somewhere in his misery Dean falls asleep.

…

…

"Dean, wake up."

Quit shaking me, Sammy.

"Dean, you're scaring me."

Just go back to sleep.

…

…

"Dad, something's wrong with Dean."

Jesus, Sammy, I'm fine.

"Fuck."

Huh?

…

…

"C'mon, Dean-o, you gotta wake up for me."

I am up!

…

…

Aaarhg!

"Dad, you're hurting him."

"Sorry, kiddo."

…

…

Jesus, Dad, are you carrying me? What am I? Fucking five?

…

…

"Dad, he's all white, you gotta do something."

…

…

"Please take a seat over there, we'll call you when a doctor is ready to see your son."

"Are you fucking kidding me? My kid's unconscious!"

"Sir, this is a free clinic, we have to prioritize."

_Crash._

"Security down to admission. Some guy just punched a wall."

…

…

"I am fucking calm!"

"Lower your voice, sir, or we will have to restrain you."

"Restrain me all you want, you son of a bitch, just take care of my kid, goddamnit!"

…

…

"Acute appendicitis…prepping for surgery now."

Surgery? Needles? No fucking way!

…

…

_Bleep…bleep…bleep…_

"Dad! Dad, it's Dean, he's waking up!"

Dean's head is spinning. His arms and legs are tingly. Gotta love painkillers.

"Hey, champ."

Sammy's face is blurring together into one giant dimple. Dad's got a pretty colorful bruise on the…left side of his face. He right hand is in a cast. Weird.

"You need anything?"

Dean tries to think it over…can't really focus on much…except for…

"I'd kill for some Punch Twists."


End file.
